


Mr Rose

by Land_Under_Wave



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Bittersweet, But probably mostly, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Imaginary Friends, Imaginary relationships, Loneliness, Sort Of, and maybe, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29765976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Land_Under_Wave/pseuds/Land_Under_Wave
Summary: Jaskier is a bored, lonely young man, sitting in his drawing room window with nothing to do except sit, and look pretty, and wait for someone to marry him. Then one day the mysterious flower-seller from his grandmother's stories walks by his window, and he begins to form a beautiful friendship with the man he calls Mr Rose. The only problem? Jaskier has never actually spoken to him.*I suck at summaries! This is a Geraskier imaginary relationship fic!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Mr Rose

**Author's Note:**

> The title (and plot, kinda) of this fic come from the song Mr Rose by Spence Hood. It's a lovely song, so check it out!
> 
> Also, at this point, the only real similarity between my characters and canon Witcher characters is their names and basic physical descriptions. This is unapologetically out of character lol.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Would love if you could leave a comment and tell me what you think!

There’s a man in Lettenhove who people call Mr Rose. No one seems to know what his real name is, and no one knows him well enough to ask. He’s had the name for as long as Jaskier’s granny can remember and been in Lettenhove even longer. Jaskier’s granny is over 100 years old, so Jaskier isn’t sure how that can be true, but she’s too stubborn to argue with. He sells the biggest, brightest, most fragrant flowers this side of the Pontar, from a big hand barrow in the town square. The story goes that he gave himself to a sorceress for a month of nights, in exchange for magical flower-growing abilities. He doesn’t talk much, but his prices are always fair, and he always seems to have exactly what you’re looking for.

Not that Jaskier would know; he’s rarely allowed out of the house these days. Nice young men stay at home and wait for someone to marry them, apparently. Jaskier has learned that being a nice young man is unbelievably boring. He gets up and eats his breakfast and plays some music, and once a day his old nurse chaperones him for a half-hour walk in the public gardens and then he comes home and draws or has lessons or has a fitting for new clothes, and then he eats dinner and goes to bed. And that’s _all._ He’s not necessarily _opposed_ to the idea of marriage, you understand. He just thinks that marriage ought to be something that _happens_ to you, not something you’re _for._ But he’s a young man of good family, and that means sitting in the window like a joint of meat and waiting for someone to choose him. Lately he’s been spending a lot of time talking to Granny, who has wonderful stories of daring and adventure from when she and Grandpa were travelling the world. Now that’s the kind of marriage that Jaskier would want for himself, if he were at liberty to choose. Granny and Grandpa were the best of friends, and their love story is famous from here to the Blue Mountains. So in amongst colourful tales of pirates and highwaymen and moonlit carriage-chases, the story of Mr Rose the flower-seller barely makes it into the top twenty.

Until, one day, at eleven o’clock on the dot, Mr Rose walks past Jaskier’s window. It’s a fairly nice window, as windows go. It has a comfortable window seat, in the blue drawing room at the front of the house, where Jaskier likes to sit and play his lute or write poetry (nice young men are, thankfully, allowed to do this). Actually, that’s not quite true. Jaskier likes to sit and play his music and write poetry, certainly, he just doesn’t like that he has to sit in this particular window to do it. But his parents are too nervous to send him to dances or parties, or -Melitele forbid- the big city to be Seen, so the window seat in the drawing room is the next best thing. Apparently. Regardless, this is where Jaskier is sitting, with his shirt starched to near-rigidity and his jacket buttoned up to his throat, when he first sees Mr Rose. It takes him a moment to put two and two together. He’s never seen the man before, after all. But he clocks the white hair, and the rose in the buttonhole of his jacket, and the big cart of flowers he’s pushing in front of him and sits up a little straighter. Mr Rose might be the least interesting of Granny’s stories, but he _is_ nonetheless a story, and now he’s here, standing where Jaskier can actually see him. He is leaning against his cart, catching his breath after the long climb up the hill. Jaskier wants to get up and throw open the door and talk to him – and then remembers that there are servants stationed in front of the door as prevention against exactly this eventuality. Polite young men never do anything so passionate as making spontaneous conversation in the street. He contents himself with watching Mr Rose rearrange some of the buckets of flowers in his cart. He’s a big man, tall and broad, and his eyes are a strange yellow-gold colour. He doesn’t remember that from Granny’s stories. There’s a strange thrill in being able to learn things like this for himself. Then, Mr Rose looks up from his work and right into Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier feels himself blushing. Mr Rose might be old – not as old as Granny made him out to be, it would seem, but still _old_ – but he’s still rather handsome. And he’s _looking right at Jaskier._ Jaskier realises, somewhat dizzily, that no one has really _seen_ him for months and months. His parents look at him only to adjust his clothes, or fix his hair, or prod him to stand up straighter, or tell him off about something. The servants generally don’t look at him at all. Granny is almost completely blind, so she can’t look at him even if she wants to. But Mr Rose is looking at him now, and after a moment or two the corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s the smile of someone who has grown unaccustomed to smiling, but it’s there, and Jaskier finds himself smiling back. They smile at one another for an endless moment, and then Mr Rose finishes whatever it was he was doing and goes on his way. Jaskier stares after him for several minutes, heart racing. He gets up, carefully, as though one wrong move will shatter the precious memory like glass, and goes to find Granny, to ask her to tell him about Mr Rose again.

The next day, at the same time, Mr Rose comes by again. Once again, they smile at each other, and then Mr Rose carries on down the street. It happens again, and again, and again – a whole week in a row, at exactly eleven o’clock. On the third day, Mr Rose starts wearing forget-me-nots in his buttonhole instead of a rose and Jaskier wonders what prompted this departure with tradition. He finds himself looking forward more and more to the only part of his day where someone _sees_ him, a little moment that his parents can’t prepare and manage and dissect. A little precious moment that is just for him. It feels good. Mr Rose’s smile gets bigger, and more genuine, every time Jaskier sees him. That feels good too; Jaskier wonders if Mr Rose looks forward to these encounters as much as Jaskier does. After about three weeks of this, Mr Rose does something unexpected – he waves. Jaskier is so surprised he drops his lute, and when he lifts his head again after picking it up, Mr Rose is gone. Jaskier blinks after him, suddenly desperately lonely. More than anything, he wants to talk to Mr Rose. He wants to know his name, wants to be asked for his in return, wants so badly to know, and be known, that it hurts.

That night, after Jaskier has gone to bed, he lies awake for hours, imagining how it would go. Mr Rose’s voice would be gruff, he’s sure of it, hoarse from years of use. They would shake hands, probably, and then Jaskier would say “will you walk in garden with me, Mr Rose?” And Mr Rose would nod, and smile – he’s not much of a talker, Jaskier has decided – and they’ll stroll through the public gardens together for hours. Jaskier thinks Mr Rose must know the names of all the plants and animals in Redania. He would ask about all of them, and Mr Rose would tell him, voice low and amused. It’s difficult to imagine this conversation in any great detail – after all, the Mr Rose that Jaskier is speaking to only exists in his head and cannot know anything that Jaskier himself does not know. Still, he does his best. When they’ve finished their walk in the garden, Jaskier tries to compose a flower-related pun, but fails miserably. Even in the safety of his bedroom, Jaskier finds himself blushing crimson with embarrassment. He falls asleep imagining how Mr Rose sounds when he laughs.

Jaskier sleeps better that week, imagining his life as Mr Rose’s best friend, than he has for years. After their walk in the gardens, Mr Rose takes him for ice cream – which Jaskier has never actually eaten but is certain he will love – and they talk some more.

_“Why do you sell the flowers?” Jaskier wants know. Mr Rose shrugs._

_“It’s something I know how to do. It brings people joy. And colour.” Jaskier nods._

_“Do they bring you colour?” Mr Rose smiles._

_“Yes.” They are lying on their backs, fingers sticky with ice cream, staring up at the clouds. Mr Rose smells like freshly-turned earth and roses, and Jaskier has never felt so peaceful in his life. He thinks this must be what freedom feels like and says so. Mr Rose just hums in reply, and they go back to watching the clouds in silence._

_“Do you see the one over just above the horizon?” asks Mr Rose, pointing. Jaskier squints at it._

_“The one that looks like a fish?” Mr Rose hums his agreement-_ and the fantasy has to end there, because Jaskier doesn’t know the names of any fish. He turns over crossly and makes a mental note to read about plants and animals, so that he can actually finish one of these conversations. 

*

“Julian! Wake up, child!”

“Hmmwha-” Jaskier splutters as he’s roughly pulled awake. It’s 15 days since Mr Rose waved at him for the first time. Jaskier wonders when he started measuring time like this, but only vaguely. It’s very early, after all. His mother is beside him, wearing her characteristic disapproving face.

“Mr Graune is coming to drink tea with us – you remember?” Jaskier groans.

“Yes, mother.” Mr Graune has not been in Lettenhove long. He’s rich, and single, and every scheming mother this side of the Pontar has been trying to get him into her drawing room to meet her children for weeks. It should be a great honour for him to call on Jaskier so soon. The other eligible young people in Lettenhove are certainly green with envy, according to his mother and the servants she sends out each day for gossip, but Jaskier has yet to decide whether they are right to be. He’s never even seen Mr Graune and knows nothing about him except his rumoured bank balance. Mother and several of the servants bathe and dress him, a process that Jaskier learned long ago does not require his active participation. This is just as well, since Jaskier is still thinking about Mr Rose. He won’t see him today. He’s almost relieved about that, now, because last night before he went to bed, he imagined telling Mr Rose about Mr Graune’s visit…

_“I’ll miss you,” Jaskier said quietly. Mr Rose smiled sadly._

_“I’ll miss you too.” They looked at each other for a long, golden moment, and before Jaskier could stop the daydream in its tracks, they were kissing. It was soft and gentle; Jaskier hasn’t ever actually kissed anybody, so he didn’t know if they were even doing it right, but it was definitely…something._ Then he sat bolt upright in bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was an avid daydreamer, this he knew, but that had been the first time he’d ever daydreamed…that. So, this morning, he’s almost glad that he won’t have to look at Mr Rose today. He’s worried that Mr Rose would be able to see his errant daydream in his eyes.

When his mother finally deems him fit for company, Jaskier is frogmarched down to the green drawing room – the formal one, at the back of the house – and settled on the sofa. His shirt is even more stiffly starched than usual, and his hair is so heavily pomaded that it would probably protect him from a blow to the head. Jaskier tunes out his mother’s nervous chatter by thinking about Mr Rose, as he has taken to doing this past fortnight. He imagines the kiss again, a touch nervously. A soft, fuzzy feeling settles in his chest, so he does it again. This time, Mr Rose touches his face while they kiss. That feels good too. He’s so busy imagining the two of them telling each other how much they will miss one another that he almost misses the announcement of Mr Graune’s arrival. Jaskier straightens his clothes guiltily, wondering what’s got into him. Mr Rose must be at least as old as Granny! What’s he doing, imagining kissing him? He blushes gently, and his mother looks him over approvingly. He stifles a laugh, wondering what she would say if he knew the real reason for his high colour. Mr Graune, when he arrives, is…bland. He’s handsome, Jaskier supposes – high cheekbones, smooth skin, a jawline that could cut glass. But Jaskier is sure that, if he tries to draw him later, he won’t be able to remember a single detail of his perfect face. His eyes have no life in them. He doesn’t smile, and barely speaks. He kisses the back of Jaskier’s hand, as he’s required to do, but doesn’t look at him while he does it. They sit opposite one another while Jaskier’s mother shows the visitor his watercolour paintings, and his poetry notebook, and the flowers that he pressed the other day. They look disinterestedly at one another while his father announces that he has an excellent head for figures and can speak four languages. The other man perks up, barely, when Jaskier is instructed to play the lute for him, and his quiet applause seems genuine enough, but he’s just so…cold. Jaskier half expects him to inspect his teeth and feet, although is obviously grateful that he doesn’t. After an hour of meaningless conversation, Mr Graune bows stiffly and takes his leave. Jaskier sags back onto the sofa.

He’s alone, for the moment, unobserved for the first time since he woke up this morning, and usually he would revel in his solitude, but today he finds himself unable to enjoy it _._ The loneliness _aches_ inside him. He would much rather be out in the gardens with Mr Rose. Or even just on the window seat in the blue drawing room, looking at him through the window. He listens gloomily as the clock strikes quarter-past eleven. Part of him wishes he could have seen Mr Rose’s face, quarter of an hour ago, when Jaskier wasn’t there. Was he sad? Did he even notice? Jaskier hopes he did. It’s less lonely that way. He’s sunk so deep in his misery that he barely registers his mother come back into the green drawing room. She’s not running – a lady never runs – but she’s gliding a little faster than she usually does. There’s colour high on her cheeks and her granite face is just a touch softer. Jaskier makes to sit up properly but if his mother notices his informal posture, she doesn’t comment on it. The hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck prickle. Something’s up. Mother sits primly on the sofa that Mr Graune has just vacated. Jaskier resists the urge to raise his eyebrow questioningly.

“You’ll be married in the autumn,” Mother says, without preamble. Jaskier feels the blood drain from his face.

“Marry…marry Mr Graune, Mother?” he says in a small voice. His mother beams – _beams! –_ at him.

“Isn’t it wonderful, dear? It’s natural to be a little nervous, but you’ll have a very comfortable house just outside of town, and he says he’ll build you a music room! Isn’t that thoughtful of him?” Jaskier nods vacantly. He knew that he was not going to have a say in who he married. He knew that. But to have it be like this – not even a proposal! Just a hallway agreement, as though Mr Graune has purchased a dog instead of choosing a husband! The ground suddenly seems to be rushing up towards him and then everything goes very dark.

*

When he comes to, he’s in bed.

“-the excitement,” says Mother’s voice. “He’s the richest man in Lettenhove, you know,” she continues.

“Yes, dear,” says his father’s disinterested voice. “So you are continually telling me.” Jaskier’s eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t like his parents, he never has. He’s spent his entire childhood plotting elaborate ways to escape them and their prim, uncomfortable house. But suddenly, listening to this bored, one-sided conversation, mundane in its familiarity, he wishes that he could stay here, in this bed he has slept in since he was a little boy, in this room that has confined him for all of his life. Trapped, yes, but safe. Comfortable. And, most importantly, alone. He cries quietly as he realises that his days of warm, comforting solitude are numbered – in a few short weeks, even his bed won’t be a sanctuary anymore. He imagines big, calloused hands gently rubbing his back, soothing him. He imagines strong arms wrapping around him, keeping him safe.

_“Run away with me,” he whispers. “We’ll go to Cidaris, maybe. Or Temeria.”_

_“Or maybe to Oxenfurt,” Mr Rose whispers back. “You could study music, and I can sell flowers as well in Oxenfurt as I do here.” Jaskier nods against his pillow, imagining with all of his might that it’s a broad, warm chest and not a too-soft pillow wet with tears._

_“Yes. Yes, alright then, we’ll go to Oxenfurt. Tomorrow, ok? You promise?” Mr Rose chuckles warmly._

_“I promise, little flower. I promise.”_ And with this imaginary assurance ringing in his ears, Jaskier falls back to sleep.

*

They don’t go to Oxenfurt, of course. When he wakes up the following morning, Jaskier throws himself out of bed and reaches for the suitcase on top of the wardrobe, mentally running through all the things he needs to pack. He’s halfway through folding up his winter coat when he remembers that the previous night’s little daydream was exactly that – a daydream. Mr Rose has no idea who he is. He doesn’t know Jaskier is getting married. Even if he did know he probably wouldn’t care. The thought almost makes him cry again. Then he shakes his head.

“Stupid,” he mutters to himself as he returns his clothes and books to their places. “Stupid. Hurting your own damn feelings.” He dresses himself and eats a hasty breakfast from the tray that’s been left in his room, before grabbing his lute and heading downstairs. He doesn’t realise he’s on his way to the blue drawing room until he’s in the doorway, and then he stops. Technically, he supposes, he doesn’t need to sit on that window seat anymore. He has been Seen, and indeed Chosen. Shopkeepers don’t leave sold goods in the window, after all. But his mother and father are nowhere to be seen, and none of the servants appear to have noticed him, so he goes in anyway. It is quarter to eleven. He strums idly, scribbling down a few lyrics as he goes. The clock strikes eleven, and he looks up. No Mr Rose. Jaskier shakes himself. Maybe he’s been held up with a customer. No need to fret. He tries to go back to his music, but he can’t concentrate. Even the slightest movement out the corner of his eye has his head shooting up, but Mr Rose still doesn’t come. By half-past eleven, Jaskier is miserable. Perhaps Jaskier’s absence yesterday has broken the spell and he’ll never see Mr Rose again. Maybe he thought Jaskier didn’t want to see him anymore. There’s a twinge of guilt in his belly, and he feels silly for it. They’ve never spoken! They are not friends! Jaskier can’t hurt this man’s feelings because they don’t know each other! The guilt lingers, though, regardless of how vehemently Jaskier tries to deny it, and after a further two minutes he gives up on the music altogether, in favour of staring longingly out the window.

And then, miracle of miracles, there he is, huffing and puffing up the hill like always. He’s got fewer flowers in his cart than he usually does at this time of day – Jaskier’s initial theory, that he had been held up by customers, seems likely then. He stares hungrily as Mr Rose pushes his cart closer, nose almost right up against the windowpane. Like every day, he stops right in front of the window for a moment, catching his breath. He looks up, as though out of habit, and starts a little, as though he’s surprised to see Jaskier. And then he _grins,_ a huge, toothy thing that lights up his whole face, and his strange yellow eyes. Jaskier beams back, pressing his hand to the glass. The golden moment between them stretches and stretches and stretches and-

“Julian!”

-snaps. Jaskier wrenches himself away from the window with an apologetic smile and goes to meet his mother in the hall. She’s flustered – Mr Graune has come for an unexpected visit. Jaskier finds that he can bear his fiancé’s (ugh – fiancé) cold, indifferent gaze a little better today, with the memory of Mr Rose’s smile warming his insides. They actually talk this time, or at least Jaskier does. Mr Graune just asks questions or prompts him. Jaskier can’t help feeling that he’s being put through his paces like a greyhound newly purchased for the racing circuit. He doesn’t appreciate how easy it has suddenly become to apply dog analogies to his life.

“Tell me, Julian, have you always been musical?” asks Mr Graune. “What is your favourite colour? Where do you like to buy your clothes? Do you prefer to write with a fountain pen or a dip pen? What is your favourite book?” All asked in the same apathetic, toneless voice, and accompanied by a stare so penetrating Jaskier feels quite violated. It’s as though Mr Graune has never conversed with a human person before, has only learned about it in a book. They’re the sorts of questions one might find in the “marriage manuals” Granny has told him about – books written by middle-aged married women instructing young people in the art of finding a spouse. They all have ridiculous titles like ‘Ten Questions to Help you Find a Husband’ or ‘The Art of Romantic Conversation’. Jaskier wonders if Mr Graune purchased one of these books in preparation for meeting him today. The thought is almost endearing, and he tries his best to answer enthusiastically. He tells Mr Graune about his first lute, and the terrible mess he made the first time he tried to use a grown-up dip pen. He’s starting to relax just a little, almost enjoying himself – right up until the moment when Mr Graune asks:

“And were you an obedient child?” Jaskier goes rigid with revulsion, angry with himself for letting his guard down. There may be several reasons why a man might ask this of his future spouse, but none of them are good. Jaskier looks around a little desperately, as though someone might be coming to deliver him from this ordeal. Surprisingly, his mother, sitting in a chair a discrete distance away, does.

“Oh yes,” she gushes. “He’s always done exactly as he was told. We rarely had to punish him when he was young, isn’t that right dear?” she turns to Jaskier’s father, who is installed even further away reading a newspaper. He looks up vaguely.

“Hm? Oh, yes, quite so my dear,” he murmurs vacantly, and then goes back to his reading. Mr Graune nods once, apparently satisfied, and then stands up.

“Well,” says, “I must take up no more of your time. I shall call again tomorrow afternoon. Until then.” And just like that he’s striding from the room. Jaskier’s mother bustles out after him, leaving Jaskier alone with his father. He finds he’s breathing very hard, struggling for breath around a sudden tightness in his throat. Trying to imagine a future in which all of his days look like this – hours spent being relentlessly grilled by a man who doesn’t actually care about the answers to his questions – only makes it worse. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this tired before. Just as he has made up his mind to go upstairs for a nap, his father closes the newspaper and comes over to him. He reaches out a hand as though to put it on his shoulder, but stops short of actually touching him, opting for an awkward arm swing instead. Jaskier looks up dully, but can’t quite bring himself to look directly at his father. They’ve rarely spent any time together, and usually Jaskier would look forward to a conversation with him with interest, but today he finds he doesn’t care what his father might have to say to him.

“It’s a very good match, you know,” Father begins. “Everyone’s talking of it in town, apparently. Your mother is thrilled.”

“I’m glad someone is,” Jaskier replies quietly. His gaze is fixed on a spot on the wall just above Father’s head, but he sees the slight lift in the shoulders as the other man sighs.

“It-it may well get easier, you know. Many loving marriages have had less auspicious beginnings.”

“Mhm,” says Jaskier. Father sighs again, retrieves his newspaper from the table and walks away. Jaskier remains, rotted to the spot, staring at the spot on the wall with blurry eyes for what feels like hours.

*

In the weeks that follow, Jaskier’s little daydreams about Mr Rose get more and more ridiculous. He fantasises that they send one another secret messages baked into pies, or coded in bouquets of flowers. They go dancing and swimming and, on one memorable occasion, get married. Jaskier only dares to dream that once. For one thing, imagining a beautiful wedding, bright with flowers, that he will never have is very painful. For another, it makes him feel ridiculous. They’ve still never spoken! He tries to temper his sweet fantasies with harsher daydreams. Perhaps Mr Rose is a terrible, cruel man who would beat him black and blue. Perhaps he isn’t even interested in men! This achieves very little, except to upset him, so he gives up on this line of thought fairly quickly. The day Jaskier’s betrothal is formally announced, a week after his parents finish paying off his dowry, Jaskier fantasises that Mr Rose comes barging through the doors, challenging Mr Graune to a duel.

_Mr Rose’s sword is long and heavy and sharp, gleaming silver in the firelight_ [there seems to be a lot of firelight in Jaskier’s daydreams, which is odd because there aren’t even any fireplaces in this house anymore]. _Mr Graune is a tall man, by ordinary standards, but even he is dwarfed by Mr Rose’s colossal bulk. His own sword is similarly, laughably, outmatched._

_“Do you love him?” Mr Rose asks, dangerously soft. Mr Graune sneers._

_“_ Love?” _he scoffs. “What has love to do with it? Marriage is but a business arrangement. The boy is mine, Rose. As is his dowry.” Mr Rose nods, solemnly._

_“I am glad,” he says, a predatory light in his eyes. “I am glad that you said that. It makes what comes next much easier.” The actual fight is extremely short – After three barely-parried blows, Mr Graune’s sword shatters, and he falls over backwards_ [can swords shatter? Jaskier isn’t sure, but the image is wonderfully poetic. He replays it a few times, just for the sheer drama of it] _. His opponent presses the point of his blade delicately into the hollow of his throat._

_“You don’t deserve him,” says Mr Rose. “That boy has more love in his pinky finger than most people have in their whole body, and you want to marry him for a_ business arrangement _! For such an insult I will not suffer you to live,” he continues, raising his sword for the killing blow. Jaskier’s mother_ [who, interestingly, was not present a moment before, Jaskier is sure] _buries her head against her husband’s chest, whimpering._

_“Wait!” Jaskier cries, rushing over. “Don’t-don’t kill him. Please, my love. Let him go.” Mr Rose lowers his arm and looks down at him._

_“Why? You’ve said it yourself often enough – he is an entirely loveless man. You deserve better than that.” Jaskier’s heart does a fuzzy little flip in his chest and he worms his way into Mr Rose’s arms._

_“I have better,” he sighs. “I have so much better. Just leave him, my darling, and we’ll go away somewhere. To Oxenfurt, like we planned?” Mr Rose smiles down at him, all crinkly eyes and sharp teeth._

_“Alright, little flower. To Oxenfurt.” He sheathes his sword with a flourish. “Go, then,” he snarls down at Mr Graune, who is still cowering on the floor. “Take the dowry and get out of here. If I see you again, I shall kill you, whatever my flower says.” Mr Graune whimpers and nods, tripping over his own legs in his haste to get away. Jaskier sighs again_ [he’s sure that he doesn’t sigh this much in his ordinary life, but in these daydreams, he can’t seem to help it] _and lays his head against Mr Rose’s chest_. _Jaskier’s mother recovers herself, extricates herself from Father’s arms and marches over to them._

_“Not so fast!” she cries shrilly_ [Mother has never been _shrill_ a day in her life, Jaskier’s logical voice reminds him _._ He waves it off impatiently – it simply works better this way]. _“Mr Graune is the richest man in Lettenhove! And now he’s even richer, for you’ve sent him off with Julian’s dowry! Leaving us with nothing!” Mr Rose looks down at her._

_“I see. What are you suggesting, madam?” Mother sniffs._

_“I demand that you offer some reparations. We had to pay a great deal of money to get this ungrateful child married off, you know!” Mr Rose blinks at her in surprise._

_“Hm.” In his arms, Jaskier can feel how still he goes, almost stiff. “Very well, madam. There is nothing I could give you to the value of even half what your son is worth.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pad of credit notes and a pen. He writes on the topmost note and hands it to Mother. “However, if you take this to Vivaldi’s Bank, I hope you’ll find the ensuing payment will be enough to cover the cost of my flower’s dowry, and more besides.” Mother takes the note greedily and scurries off to show her husband. Jaskier and Mr Rose look at one another, grinning. And then suddenly Mr Rose seizes him in his arms and spins him round, laughing that gorgeous, full-bellied laugh that turns Jaskier’s heart to flowers and his stomach to butterflies._

Jaskier is fully prepared to admit that it’s a silly fantasy. For one thing, Mr Rose certainly isn’t rich enough to own a sword. Or a pad of credit notes. Or, perhaps, even a bank account. For another, none of the characters in this little romance-play really behave as Jaskier has presented them, or speak in such a banal, hackneyed way. He knows all of this and yet, somehow, retreating into this improbable daydream world is all that gets him through the day. There are endless fittings for new clothes – he must have a new outfit for his wedding, and then another one for the reception and, apparently, at least 20 new ones for when he’s actually married. He’s no idea why. It has become clear that his husband-to-be will allow him no more freedom than his parents have; he is simply trading one decadent, gilded prison for another.

In addition to this, people have occasionally been Paying Him Calls. For the first two weeks, this was rather a novel experience; he has so rarely been allowed to meet people who don’t live in his parents’ house. After the 8th visit, he realised that people aren’t actually interested in meeting him at all. They want to put him through his paces, just like Mr Graune, making him play and sing and show off his artwork. They want to learn what it is about him that is so beguiling as to entice Mr Graune, the richest man in Lettenhove (Melitele have mercy, how he wishes he never had to hear those words ever again) into marriage, without even playing the field a little first. And they want to do this so that they can pass judgement over him and gossip about him to their friends. It seems desperately unfair that his reputation is beginning to enjoy the kind of active social life Jaskier himself can only dream of.

He is still sitting in the blue drawing room every morning, and smiling at Mr Rose, and it is still unequivocally the best part of his day. And if he’s secretly a little disappointed that his daydream never comes true, that Mr Rose never knocks on the door to whisk him away, well. No one needs to know about that, do they. It has, of course, occurred to him that _he_ could sneak out. Under cover of darkness, when he is less heavily guarded than at other times, he might be able to carefully open the front door and go out into the world. He could find Mr Rose himself, maybe. But he doesn’t know where Mr Rose lives. And, despite how lonely he is, despite how much he hates his life and wishes that he were someone, anyone, else, he’s afraid. So deathly, deathly afraid that whatever there is to find, out there in the wide world might actually be _worse_. Locked away in his plush cage, daydreaming of the adventure and romance that might await him outside the front door protects him, at least a little, from the loneliness and the boredom and, yes, the fear. If the great wide somewhere beyond the window doesn’t meet those expectations… there wouldn’t be anything to protect him from that, would there?

*

And then it is, suddenly and despite all wishes to the contrary, his wedding day. He sits up in bed in a haze of unreality, fresh from a dream in which Mr Rose rescued him from a very tall tower (look, he’s well aware that Mr Graune’s house doesn’t have a tower, ok? He’s given up trying to make these daydreams realistic). He wonders a little desperately if anyone would notice if he just…didn’t get up. Perhaps if he goes back to bed, time will simply pass him by. The world will go on without him and he will, at last, be free. But his stomach is growling emptily, and his bladder is so full it feels like it’s going to burst. Even his daydreams can’t save him from that. As he slinks down the stairs to where he can smell bacon and eggs in the dining room, he tries to call up the memory of Mr Rose’s face. He supposes he won’t ever see him again; Mr Graune’s house is on the other side of town, and no amount of wishing is going to entice Mr Rose to change his route. But he realises, with terror-laced misery, that he can’t seem to recall a single detail of that adored face. He feels oddly betrayed, as though his beloved has abandoned him in his hour of need. He gives a bitter, quiet laugh. Perhaps it is better this way. He is going to be married today, after all. Married men do not daydream about running away with a man they have only ever seen through a window. That doesn’t stop his heart from breaking a little, though.

“Good Morning, Julek,” his father smiles at him as he sits down at the table. Jaskier smiles wanly back, swallowing around the lump in his throat. No one has called him Julek since he was a little boy. Father’s eyes are looking a little watery, and Jaskier realises with a jolt that this is the last time they will ever sit down to breakfast together, just the three of them. Granted, he doesn’t actually _like_ having breakfast with his parents – it’s always depressing to learn that you’ve managed to find time to be a disappointment barely an hour after you woke up – but still. When something happens so often as to render it mundane, it’s so much easier to feel as though the frustration it inspires is productive. Anger, and smiling Mr Rose – his tiny, secret acts of rebellion. And now they’re being stripped from him. He’ll never see Mr Rose again, after all. And anger is only rebellious when the person you’re angry with actually cares about what you think. 

So at a loss for anything else to do, Jaskier swallows his tears – and his breakfast – and goes upstairs to prepare for his wedding.

*

Geralt is an old man – much, much older than he looks. He feels even older, though; it’s hard not to, when you’ve had to watch everyone you’ve ever known or loved wither away before your eyes, leaving you behind. He’s never been prone to nostalgia. There’s no point; it just makes him feel sad, and he promised his family, his friends, that he would live the best he could, for them. But he can’t help wondering if his new habit of introspection and reminiscing means he’s on the way out. He isn’t sure how he feels about that. It starts one morning in the early summer, while he’s harvesting some of the flowers – he planted lobelias in this bed, but they’ve come out as forget-me-nots. This isn’t uncommon; the magic that still permeates the ground here seems to know what people in Lettenhove want even better than he does himself. He wonders who they are for. As he is pulling them gently from the ground, he finds himself thinking about Ciri, his daughter in all ways but one, thinking about how tiny she was when they first met, how quickly she grew. Almost as quickly as his flowers grow. Geralt hasn’t thought about Ciri for a long time. It hurts too much. But once the thoughts have started, he finds he can’t stop them. And not just the ones about Ciri, but about his brothers-in-arms, about the friends that he made, and loved, and lost. Unusually, he finds himself thinking most especially, and with great longing, about his lovers; mostly about Yennefer, and her beauty and her strength and her courage. But also about Antoni, and Zuzanna, and Jakob and Dandelion and the countless others he has shared his heart with in his long life. He’s still thinking about them as he loads up his cart to take into the town, as he fastens the biggest, brightest rose in his buttonhole, as he parts with roses and foxgloves and corn poppies and irises. Unusually, Geralt does not sell a single forget-me-not. The magic has never been wrong before. Perhaps he really is on the way out.

It’s as he’s pushing his cart up the hill, huffing and puffing as he goes, that he first sees the young man - a boy, really - looking out at him from one of the big houses in the town square. He looks up from rearranging the buckets in the cart which the slope of the hill has thrown into disarray, and suddenly there he is. When their eyes meet, his smile is blindingly bright, illuminating an inner world Geralt didn’t realise was dark until now. The face that peers hungrily out of the window at him reminds him somewhat of Dandelion’s. There is no reason why this should be, they look nothing alike really – Geralt certainly isn’t sure he ever saw his dear friend look so genuinely miserable. They’re both pretty, though, and he looks at Geralt like Dandelion did, back when they first met. Looks at him like he’s a story, or an adventure; someone he wants to get to know better. Like he’s a person, not just a feature of the town. He’s young, much too young for Geralt of course, but that’s not the point. When he smiles at Geralt, Geralt finds himself smiling back, unpracticed. How Dandelion, who spent many hours teaching Geralt to flirt, would laugh to see him now, unable even to smile convincingly. As Geralt continues his laborious journey home, he realises that now he knows who the forget-me-nots were for – for the lovely, lonely boy whose eyes are exactly the same shade of blue.

Geralt finds himself walking by the house every day, just so he can see Blue (as he has taken to calling him, in the privacy of his heart) again. Despite living in Lettenhove for almost a century, he knows nothing of its inhabitants, save what he can glean from his limited flower-selling interactions. He has no way of knowing Blue’s name, or social standing, that wouldn’t make him sound like a stalker. There is no way for him to find out what can possibly have made that young face look so sad, so dejected. It’s silly to indulge in his fondness for the boy – and that’s all it is just an almost paternal kinship with this young man who looks as lonely as Geralt suddenly feels. But the way his face lights up when he catches Geralt’s eye through the window, the way they beam and wave at each other, reminds Geralt so painfully of being young that he can’t keep away. It’s almost like having a friend. He even switches out his usual button-hole rose for a sprig of forget-me-nots, which have started appearing in his flowers beds every day. He wonders if Blue notices, hopes he does. He hopes Blue realises that he’s made as much positive impact on Geralt’s life as Geralt seems to have had on his. And if he is disappointed the boy never comes out of the house to talk with him; if he sometimes wants him to so badly it hurts, it’s not enough to keep him from returning, day after day.

He notices the increasing paleness of the face, and the occasional tear-tracks. He notices how Blue’s chest is sometimes heaving, like he has been running to get to the window in time. He notices the increased desperation in the boy’s smile, the slump of his shoulders. It makes him ache. Once, just once, Blue misses a window encounter, and Geralt’s day is utterly spoiled, overcome as he is with a weird grief that he’s not sure even Dandelion could find the words to explain. By the following day, Geralt is feeling so sour that he almost misses the boy. Almost. When he looks up from his cart, Blue is pressed right up to the window, his nose making a little smudge on the glass. Geralt’s face starts to smile before he has even registered what he’s looking at, and though his cheeks ache with the effort it feels _so good_ to smile like this again.

The next time the boy isn’t there when Geralt passes, he tries not to feel so angry about it. Blue does, presumably, have a life. He has places to go, people to meet, things to do. It is unfair to begrudge him that, just because it means that he, Geralt, has to go a day without seeing him. But then the day turns into a week, which turns into a month, and Blue still hasn’t returned. Geralt begins to worry. What if he’s sick? What if he’s _died?_ Geralt usually knows when there’s been a funeral or a wedding, because he’s got the best flowers this side of the Pontar, but maybe it feels wrong to have flowers at a funeral for someone so young. Organising a funeral for Ciri was bad enough, and she had already lived quite considerably longer than humans usually do. By Geralt’s best guess, Blue can’t be more than 18 – far too young to die. After a further two weeks of feeling irritable and upset, and snapping at several customers, Geralt decides that he needs to be brave and ask someone. The people of Lettenhove, with the exception of himself, seem to know all about one another’s business. One of his customers can tell him what has happened to the boy.

His chosen informant is one of his regulars, a soft-spoken older man by the name of Nowak, who has been buying Geralt’s roses for his wife for over 40 years. As he’s paying for his flowers, Geralt clears his throat awkwardly.

“The boy,” he begins, skin crawling with strange terror. “The one who lives in the big blue house on the hill. What’s happened to him?” he hope he sounds nonchalant, although the other man’s raised eyebrow suggests perhaps not.

“What, Julian Pankratz? Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Geralt mutters, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He files away the small crumb of information – _Julian_ just didn’t seem to fit the bright-eyed boy – and takes a deep steadying breath. “Just haven’t seen him around for a while. He alright?” Nowak smiles.

“He’s not dead, or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he replies gently, and Geralt releases the breath he had been holding in a great shuddering sigh.

“Right. Good. That’s good.”

“Not sure if you’d necessarily class him as ‘alright’, though. Got married, didn’t he, about a month ago. New chap, name of Graune. Not cruel, or anything, not as I’ve heard anyway,” he continues quickly, seeing Geralt’s stricken face.

“Was it…was it love?” Geralt croaks, around the sudden lump in his throat.

“I doubt it,” says Nowak, leaning close. “My Zofia reckons this Mr Graune is a cold sort of fella. And by all accounts the boy was a bright little thing, before he was married. Not that there many – accounts, that is; boy didn’t get out much once he got to marriageable age. Seems a crying shame, really, bright young man like that getting married to someone so dull, but there it is.” So distracted is Geralt by the sudden, terrible, pain in his chest that he loses track of the old man’s gossiping for a while. When he focuses back in, Nowak is still talking about the boy.

“I remember when he was just a lad – Jaskier, his granny used to call him. Always singing or dancing or getting up to some mischief. A crying shame,” he repeats shaking his head sadly. “Well, must be off; these roses’ll wilt afore I get home, else.” And then Gealt is alone, thoughts racing. _Jaskier._ Buttercup. Oh yes, that fits much better.

“Jaskier _,”_ Geralt whispers it aloud, just to know the shape of it on his tongue. His mind is aflame as he ambles home; a roiling cauldron of conflicting emotion. Joy, that the boy is not dead, is not sick; joy that Geralt knows his name, knows it to be as bright and sunny as the boy himself. Grief that this happy chapter – the happiest he can remember for decades – of Geralt’s life is over, that this friend, closed off and unknown as he is, is lost to him. And a strange, sour feeling, which if Geralt didn’t know any better he might call jealousy. It’s not the kind of romantic jealousy he used to get when a lover found someone new, it’s more…as though he is envious that this Mr Graune, who it seems will not cherish Jaskier (what a thrill it is to finally put a true name to the face!) the way he ought to be cherished, will get the opportunity to know him before Geralt. Geralt, who yearns to know him with such intensity that it sometimes frightens him. He wishes there was something he could do for his friend, who isn’t really a friend at all. Wishes there was some way to tell him that he is not alone, that out there in the world is someone who cares about him, and is thinking well of him at all hours of the day. The rest of the day passes in a haze, and he sleeps badly, dreaming of blue eyes and a sunny smile and someone calling out to him for help.

The following morning, aching and irritable from his restless night, Geralt ambles into his garden and blinks. Usually, his flowerbeds are a riot of different colours; the reds clashing horribly with the pinks, the blues and purples finding for dominance on indigo-mottled petals, all with a background of green and brown. But this morning, there is only one colour in Geralt’s garden – the bright, iridescent yellow of thousands and thousands of buttercups. And, at last Geralt can think of something that, with a little help from Mr Nowak’s local knowledge, there is something he can do for his own buttercup.

*

Married life is, Jaskier supposes, fine. His husband doesn’t mind when Jaskier spends all day in the music room, or in the garden, playing and singing. In fact, he often comes and sits, fairly unobtrusively, nearby to listen, with an expression on his face that is almost a smile. They exchange polite conversation at mealtimes, and go to bed in separate rooms – when Jaskier realised that he had been spared _that_ part of his conjugal duties, he almost wept for relief. In truth, Mr Graune doesn’t seem to be terribly interested in Jaskier at all, except as after dinner entertainment. Jaskier’s fears that he would be expected to be a perfectly obedient lapdog, both in and out of the marriage bed, have turned out to be unfounded, and Jaskier has a little more freedom here than he used to do at home. Only a little, though – he might be allowed to spend many unstructured hours in the garden, which has flowerbeds to rival even those of the public gardens, or bathing in the truly oceanic bathtub, but he still isn’t allowed to leave the property unless his husband does. And Mr Graune, now that he has found a spouse, does not appear inclined to go out in Lettenhove society. Once his anxieties about his domestic role have abated, Jaskier finds that life as the second Mr Graune is every bit as dull and monotonous as life as Master Pankratz. Jaskier thinks that he could ask to be allowed to go out, but doesn’t quite dare. His solitude gives him a great deal of time to think, and one of the things he has been thinking about it his new husband. How he isn’t interested in Jaskier’s body, or even his mind really, how he didn’t bother looking to see if there might be someone better looking, or more intelligent, or even richer, in someone else’s drawing room. He thinks about all the gossip that Mr Graune was subjected to from the moment he set foot in Lettenhove, the gossip he would have continued to be subjected to if he hadn’t married quickly. Jaskier wonders if, perhaps, he was simply the least objectionable choice for a man who actually didn’t want to get married at all. He never voices this opinion, naturally, and does secretly worry that he’s projecting, just the tiniest bit. But the idea that the other man might feel as trapped as Jaskier does in this marriage that is not so much cold as cadaverous, makes him feel a little better. It might not be the fairytale ending he’s dreamed about, but he knows he’s had a lucky escape. So many spouses have worse things than boredom to contend with.

He finds himself thinking of Mr Rose every morning, when he hears the clock strike 11. Wondering where he is, what he’s doing. Wondering if he’s thinking about Jaskier, missing Jaskier, the way Jaskier misses him. He still daydreams about him, too, spending hours staring at – and adding to – the drawings of him that live in the notebook at the bottom of Jaskier’s wardrobe. The fantasies are different now, though. Jaskier isn’t really sure why, but he’s stopped craving the romance of his previous daydreams and has started longing for something steadier. A confidant, a friend, someone to while away lonely hours with and know that nothing is expected in return but the pleasure of his company. Someone to know him, and like him just as he is. It’s silly, and childish, perhaps more childish even than the romantic daydreams were, but it comforts him in his loneliness, the idea that there might be someone out there, one day, who would be happy to spend an hour or two just talking.

So when the post comes, one morning about two months after his wedding, he doesn’t even look up from his drawing. The loneliness is particularly acute today, because his Granny was supposed to be visiting but was prevented from coming by a chill. It’s a cold, heavy stone that sits in the middle of his chest, aching and aching and aching. Besides, there’s no one, apart from his parents, who might bother to send him anything. But then the footman, whose main job when he isn’t collecting the post seems to be to keep Jaskier from going out, comes over to him bearing the silver post tray out in front of him as though it smells bad.

“For you, sir,” he says quietly, offering Jaskier the tray. Jaskier blinks up at him, confused. He smiles kindly and proffers the tray again. Jaskier picks up the small package with shaking fingers. It’s roughly wrapped in brown tissue paper and addressed, in a curiously elegant hand that doesn’t at all match the rough wrapping, to “Jaskier Pankratz”. He supposes it’s the ‘Pankratz’ that has tipped the footman off to the package’s intended recipient, because he certainly can’t know that people call him Jaskier. It’s not his mother’s handwriting, or his father’s, and Granny can’t see to write to him, so who is it from? He waits until the footman has returned to his position by the door before he opens it, long fingers sliding under the paper so he doesn’t tear it. Inside the paper is a small piece of card, and another square of folded tissue paper. The card is written in the same elegant, old-fashioned hand, and says simply ‘ _From your friend, Geralt’._ A sob bubbles up inside him and he tears open the remaining tissue paper far less gently. Inside is a small, carefully-pressed posy of buttercups. The tears fall, large and hot, from his eyes as he clutches the delicate flowers to his chest. He’s never heard the man’s name before now, but there is no doubt in his mind who this most precious of gifts has come from.

“Geralt,” he whispers reverently, “his name is Geralt.”


End file.
